Beneath the Stones

By Susan Coryell

Mystery, suspense and romance flourish against a backdrop of Civil War turmoil and ancestral strife--where immortality infiltrates the ancient air breathed by all who inhabit Overhome Estate. Ashby Overton has everything to look forward to, including a promising writing career and her wedding at summer s end. But, Overhome, her beloved historic family estate in Southern Virginia, is in financial peril and it is up to Ashby to find a solution. Interfering with Ashby s plans is a dark paranormal force that thwarts her every effort to save Overhome. Supernatural attacks emanate from an old stone cottage on the property rumored to be a slave overseer s abode, prior to the Civil War. As the violence escalates, Ashby begins to fear for her life. Who is this angry spirit and why is his fury focused on her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781628308532

Book preview

Inc.

He climbed down cautiously,

the old boards of the steps groaning and creaking under his weight. When he reached the bottom, he turned, held out his arms. Come on down, Ashby. Just go slow.

Not to worry. I’ve done this before. I reached for the first step with my foot, carefully moving toward the bottom, one step at a time, leaning against the wall for support. I was halfway there when it happened—so suddenly that I had no time to react. Frigid air swooshed down on me from behind, freezing my face, causing me to screw my eyes tight shut at the same time something strong and determined pushed against my back violently—so violently that I stumbled, then tumbled forward, to be caught in Luke’s outstretched arms from several stairs below.

Whoa! He exhaled from the impact of my body on his. My God, Ashby. What happened?

I slumped against him, unable to utter a single word, my breathing shallow and rapid. At last I found my voice. Something pushed me, Luke. I don’t know what—or who—but it was powerful and deliberate.

Luke glanced up to the top of the stairs. Nothing there. I’m going back to the loft to look.

I stopped him. I doubt you’ll find anything. I sniffed the air, expecting a new infusion of foul odor. And what would you do if you did find anything?

Just then we both heard it. Hollow, chilling, trailing away from us with every syllable: Go away. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead…

Praise for Susan Coryell

A RED, RED ROSE (The Wild Rose Press, 2014) was nominated for a Literary Award by the Library of Virginia.

~*~

"I really enjoyed the layers to [BENEATH THE STONES], including the young, rascally cousin Jeff, the M&M Wedding Express (bridal planners), and the interesting history tidbits. My favorite part was Ashby’s interaction with the paranormal and what she learns about herself."

~Author Clifford Rush

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"Fans of Victoria Holt and Phyllis Whitney will love BENEATH THE STONES. Ms. Coryell spins a tale in the tradition of the Gothic masters, complete with a ghostly mystery that’ll give you the shivers. I’m hooked!"

~Author Jannine Gallant

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"BENEATH THE STONES is a sequel to A RED, RED ROSE, but you don’t have to have read the first book to enjoy this one. Coryell provides just enough background so we understand the story as a standalone novel. An interesting cast of characters is featured in this book, which is actually a story within a story—a mystery that dates back to the Civil War. Coryell combines humor, suspense, mystery and a good dose of the paranormal to entertain readers in this Gothic romance. A highly enjoyable read."

~Author Marilyn Baron

Beneath

the Stones

by

Susan Coryell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Beneath the Stones

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Susan Coryell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream General Edition, 2015

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-852-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-853-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my family, with gratitude

~*~

Acknowledgments

I owe thanks to many who helped this book evolve: For equestrian expertise, Rick Caldwell and Lisa Dabareiner, who spent the day showing me around her horse farm.

For musical notes, Ron Goad and Ricky Ellis.

For out-of-this-world advice on the paranormal, Karen Wrigley.

And for a deluxe winery tour, Fred and Dreama Sylvester.

Also, I appreciate John and Margie Gibson for welcoming me to their historic home at Fort Stover—the model for the overseer’s cottage.

For my readers and editors, Matt Uselton, Valerie Coryell, and Heidi Williams, who supplied the constructive criticism every writer needs.

For patience and understanding, my husband Ned.

A note from the author:

The Civil War letters included in BENEATH THE STONES are based on actual letters written from battle fronts by family ancestors, Joseph Franklin Stover and John William Stover.

After my mother-in-law’s death, the family found a nondescript box in her file cabinet. Inside we were amazed to find fifteen letters hand-written in beautiful, flowing script.

Since this occurred as I was in the midst of writing BENEATH THE STONES, I immediately seized on the idea of using excerpts from the letters in the novel.

Though, for practical reasons, I omitted many details, overall the letters reveal a haunting picture of life for the Confederate soldier.

A final note: The flute mentioned in one of the letters is very likely the same flute on display at the Museum of the Confederacy in Appomattox, Virginia.

Chapter 1

The file folder was thick as a Manhattan phone book. I’d chewed over every form, notice and bill—calculated bank balances, cash reserves and expense projections. It was enough to make an English major pack up and run away. Any way I calculated it, we were in deep financial kim chee. Something had to be done, and, unfortunately, I was the one to do it. I closed my eyes and sighed, then, called out, Monica, can you come take a look at this?

My lovely, clueless aunt appeared in the doorway of our home office at Overhome. Take a look at what, Ashby?

"This file. The one the accountant left. Before he left, that is."

Monica’s winged eyebrows rose. Oh dear, Ashby. You know I have no head for figures. She lifted the file and weighed it in her slim fingers. I know we are over-extended. Surely…surely you can find a way to fix it? Maybe Luke…when he gets home…?

I wanted to shake her—to shout, How could you let this happen? In her early forties now, and a widow on her own for five years, Monica should have been able to deal with some of life’s financial realities, but I discovered, too late, that that was the impossible dream.

It was unfortunate that Luke and I both headed off to our respective colleges so soon after my uncle died and Overhome became mine. For a while the horse farm continued to support itself, but when Aunt Monica hired the no-account accountant who speculated in a shaky stock market, we lost our reserve. Then the economy tanked. Luke, who had kept the books meticulously for so long, was deep into his studies in veterinary school. Meanwhile, Aunt Monica spent an awful lot of money updating the estate. Now we were in crisis mode. We either had to sell off the horses or mortgage the property or…what? Turn Overhome into a B&B?

I assumed my most serious look and tone. "There is a way to ‘fix it,’ as you say, Monica. I expect there’ll be a period of adjustment, but I’ve come up with something just short of desperate."

Her look told me she felt both relief and trepidation. Desperate?

"Yes. We are in desperate financial straits. Now, the question is, do you trust me to find a way out?"

You’ve always been very good at finding a way, my dear niece. Of course I trust you. She smiled with what appeared to be genuine relief, handed back the file and turned to leave. Thank you, Ashby. Do whatever you deem necessary. I am sure everything will work out for the best.

I wished I shared my aunt’s confidence "Do whatever you deem necessary." There would be battles along the way. That was the only thing I was sure of.

****

Saddling Sasha, my faithful dappled gray, now more gray than dappled, I inhaled the familiar scents of the stable. Hay and pine shavings and leather. Nowhere was I more at home than here on my beloved estate in Southern Virginia.

Glancing toward the tiny office across from the horse stalls, my mind flashed back to my early days at Overhome five years ago—my first meeting with Luke, the groom who often worked in that little office. What a clash that was! Me—the city-chic Jersey Girl, self-absorbed and naive about what to expect from my summer visit to Overhome. Luke—the cynical hayseed with a thick drawl and bad hair who looked upon Yankees as invaders. It was more than a bumpy beginning. More like a Civil War skirmish! But the summer had led to romance, and the romance had turned to love. Soon, we would be man and wife.

Sasha moved quickly into a trot. Ever appreciative of the green, rolling landscape, my heart drew me to the wooded bridle path both Sasha and I loved. But today I had more than a relaxing ride in mind. Crossing the wooden bridge that arched over a merry stream, I guided Sasha toward the back section of the estate where there was minimal lakefront and the land flattened out, punctuated here and there with an outcropping of rocks or a tuft of scrub cedars. Overhome Estate included extensive acreage; it was many minutes before I reined Sasha in as we approached an old dirt road. I wanted to get a good look at the part of the estate I hoped to market.

From horseback, I took into account the saleable points as we moved slowly over the grounds. Though long unused, the road had been a thoroughfare for local travelers. It ran alongside the creek, which once fed into the river, dammed up over fifty years ago to create Moore Mountain Lake. Now overgrown with weeds and brambles and deeply rutted above the waterline, it was hardly impressive. But the creek bubbling in the background was surely an asset. I was ever more aware of the complexity of selling off a parcel of property; it was what I’d determined to do, and I knew I’d need expert help.

My horse and I moved toward a thick strand of cedar trees. Unlike the scrubs we’d already passed, these trees were healthy and bushy. As we brushed against the branches, I smelled Christmas in the summer air. Though the going was rough, I kept moving, urging Sasha forward. Well into the copse, I spied an unusual structure—bulky and largely covered in a tangle of kudzu. Sasha moved with careful steps over brush and vines into a partial clearing where I was surprised to find a weathered and stained stone building. An old tobacco barn? No, that would have been made of wood. A storage building, perhaps. Something long unused.

Dismounting, I led Sasha to what certainly appeared to be a house. Larger than I’d first thought, the building revealed narrow windows boarded up. The limestone walls might have been white originally, though now the building was brown and green with kudzu and stains. A stone chimney rose from the middle of a rusting metal roof; the whole structure appeared old but surprisingly sturdy.

The front door was blocked with a couple of warped boards, not that I’d have the courage to try to get in. Probably inhabited with wasps and spiders. Snakes, maybe. An expanse of rotting, splintering boards, all that was left of an ancient porch, stretched across the front of the house.

A sudden chill washed over me, as if an icy breeze had sprung up. But nothing stirred. The kudzu could have been painted to the walls of the old place, the air was that still. Oddly, Sasha, too, seemed to sense something untoward. His ears flattened back and he pulled against the reins so hard that I had to forcibly hold him still—a completely alien reaction from my usually docile companion. Whoa, Sasha. Steady, boy, I encouraged, standing my ground and holding on tight.

How had I lived at Overhome all this time unaware of this old house? Who had lived here and why had it been abandoned? It would have to be torn down for development purposes, I figured, though I’d seen a few housing tracts where vintage barns and tobacco sheds and such were left standing to lend an old-fashioned, down-home flavor to modern housing projects. Then, developers liked to give the area a nostalgic name—Heritage Acres or Colonial Crest.

If anybody could fill me in on the details of this ancient abode, it would be Miss Emma Coleville, the housekeeper at Overhome for so many years. She was the resident archivist of all things pertaining to the Overton family. Well, Ashby, she’d say. Let me tell you about that old house. Sit awhile. I’ll pour you a cup of tea. Where shall I begin?

I snapped to. I was hopeful that I could move ahead with my plan to market this section of the estate. It was, after all, mine to sell. Of course, as a courtesy, I’d just alerted Aunt Monica to my actions, without being specific. And I considered, briefly, consulting my dad who had grown up at Overhome. With Luke and me communicating in text bites the last few weeks, I couldn’t figure out how to relay the news to him without causing panic. All in all, I felt it wasn’t fair to drop the responsibility in anybody else’s lap. The reality: I was the one who inherited Overhome when my Uncle Hunter died. Now I had to save Overhome from financial disaster. And I had to move immediately.

Mounting Sasha, I realized he was still skittish from the aura of the old house. I called his name and stroked him lovingly. It’s okay, boy. We’re leaving. We’ll have our ride on the trail after all. We were off! Neither of us could resist the call of the wooded trail, and when I reined him in and led him to the stable, we both wore sweat on our flanks.

Hi, Ashby! My cousin Jeff looked up as he brushed the silky-pale mane of Sunshine, his palomino pony. There you go, boy. He patted the horse, and Sunshine nibbled Jeff’s hand. You want a treat, do you? Reaching into his pocket, Jeff pulled out a peppermint and offered it on his flattened palm. Sunshine gulped down the candy with relish and a look that asked for more. Jeff laughed. That’s all, Sunshine. We don’t want to spoil your dinner.

As I began to brush Sasha down, I wondered where Jeff’s friend Nick was. The son of our hired workers Carlos and Mariana, Nick had become fast friends with Jeff. Now that Nick and his parents were living in the guest cottage, one rarely saw the twelve-year-olds separated, especially when horses were involved.

Jeff read my mind. Nick’s helpin’ his dad out in the pasture. One of the mares is acting up. Carlos says Nick’s a natural. He understands how horses think.

My cousin’s loving ministrations with Sunshine prompted the thought: Here is another one who understands how horses think. I marveled at Jeff’s maturity. Five years ago I had been invited to Overhome to act as a companion, an au pair, to Jeff, a cute, canny, freckle-faced dynamo who became more than a cousin to me, more of a younger brother to love and nurture. He still had the freckles and the permanently sun-streaked hair. His Overton blue eyes were as bright as ever, but he’d shot up like a magic bean stalk and his voice cracked appealingly when he was excited. The fact that he had Nick for a close friend, someone to share his love of horses with, warmed me as little else can.

Well, that makes two of you. Horse whisperers. I leaned over to press a quick kiss on Jeff’s cheek, knowing he was at the age of E-W-W-W at any such gesture from a female, even an older cousin. He had the grace not to brush it from his cheek.

Finishing up with Sasha, I turned to head up to the house. I’d need time to freshen up for dinner. Though she’d softened considerably over the years, Aunt Monica was always one to consider meals formal affairs. She’d not welcome a sweaty, disheveled Ashby at the table. I looked back at Jeff. Hey, Jeff. Did you know there’s a decrepit, old building over on the other side of our property?

Jeff gave me a guarded look. Um, decrepit? Not sure what you mean…where? His eyes widened in feigned innocence.

I waved a finger in front of his face. I could always tell when he was fibbing. Don’t hold out on me now. When I could see him struggling with himself, I added, You won’t get in any trouble from me.

Well, me and Nick, we…we…we kinda explored it…once. He fidgeted and shifted his eyes from mine. We actually went inside, you know. Broke in, sort of.

Okay. Breaking in might not be cool, probably dangerous for that matter, but I imagine finding an abandoned house like that would be irresistible. It would’ve been for me when I was your age.

Jeff brightened. Wanna go check it out? You and me together? I can show you how to get in.

Hah! Well, you’ve got me figured out. I’ll take you up on that. Let’s make it a date. I called a goodbye to Sasha before departing.

Ashby? The truth is we’ve been there tons of times. We were lookin’ for a Christmas tree last winter. And the house was just, you know, suddenly right there in front of us. Inside we found animal bones and old dishes and other stuff. It’s kind of like a club house. We spent a long time sweeping up, dusting off cobwebs and bees’ nests. We’ve stocked it with candles and peanut butter and sodas. What we’d really like to do is spend the night out there. He blinked, then gulped. Rats. I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. Me and Nick pledged each other to secrecy.

I crossed my heart. I promise not to tell. I thought that spending the night in a creepy old house would probably be the dream of every adventurous twelve-year-old.

Let’s keep our date to explore the place, I said. Then, maybe…well, we’ll see about anything else.

There’s one other thing. Jeff’s freckles danced. Nick and me—both of us—we think, maybe, there’s something weird about the old house. I mean, we both get this whacked-out vibe in there—like somebody’s watching us, or, maybe waiting for us. He shrugged. Oh, I don’t know. Nick was first to sense it, but then I felt it, too. But we’ve never seen anybody there.

Well, I’d had plenty of my own experiences with something weird afoot at Overhome. Believe me, I was not one to toss it off to adolescent fantasy. I didn’t say anything about my own strange vibe upon visiting the abandoned structure. Or Sasha’s, for that matter.

I’d like to check it out for myself. See you at dinner, Jeff. Your secret’s safe with me. For now, I added to myself.

Ashby, you rock! Jeff reached up with a high five.

Just then Samantha, our caretaker, jogged into view. Hey, Ashby! I caught a couple mares cribbin’ the railings and kickin’ th’ fence boards, too. She paused to light a cigarette. We’re gonna have to replace some planks.

Samantha—affectionately known as Sam—looked tough and sturdy in her uniform of jeans, heavy boots, man’s shirt and baseball cap, but she actually baby-talked even the most stubborn steeds into doing her will. We were lucky to have Sam and our other loyal employees—yet another reason I was determined to keep Overhome going—not just the manor house and grounds, but the vital horse farm I’d come to appreciate over the years.

I meandered along the path to the house, pausing, as I frequently did, to marvel at the timeless beauty of the old place. I gazed over the panorama of the ancient estate, taking in the stone wall that clings to the rolling landscape as if it had sprung from the soil, arriving finally at a boxwood maze planted in the Colonial period. The maze twisted into itself like a kid’s board game, exiting at a charming wooden gazebo where generations of Overtons had courted and kissed and reminisced—the gazebo where Luke and I were planning to recite our wedding vows. Down the hill on the opposite side lay Moore Mountain Lake—deep, clear and smooth.

Returning to the manor house, I thought how fortunate it was that Overhome itself stood high on a bluff—high enough to be spared when Moore Mountain Lake was created, over fifty years ago, by damming up the rivers and flooding the valley. Against a green background of stately trees, the mansion’s bone-white clapboards served as a stark palette for rows of black-shuttered windows. From the slate roof, four stone chimneys rose, proud testaments to antiquity. Perfectly balanced wings settled into the contours of the yard like a roosting bird, supplying harmony to the solid bulk of the mid-section. Overhome, my ancestral home, never ceased to amaze me with its settled beauty, dignity and ageless grace.

****

Dear Diary:

I know a diary is an old-fashioned way of recording thoughts. But a blog just doesn’t do it for me. All the Overton women have kept diaries—from my Grandmother Lenore all the way back to the 1800s. I’ve read many of them. Urged by my professors to journal my thoughts and activities daily, I’ve come to see my diary as an archive, a friend, my ear and my comfort—as well as a way to satisfy my need to write, write, write.

Unacceptable. Overhome is over 200 years old. Solid in Southern Virginia, it’s survived the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and the construction of Moore Mountain Dam. Please tell me, how did I manage to run it into the ground in five measly years?

This was supposed to be my summer to shine. Luckily, I paid my tuition before our financial crash. And Luke was the grateful recipient of a private scholarship for community college transfers to Tech. So we have no college loans or anything like that to worry about. Now, with my writing degree tucked under my arm, I have a half-decent freelance career on the uptick and a novel working in my mind. Best of all we have our wedding to look forward to at summer’s end. You know, Diary, how long Luke and I have waited for this—five long years. We’re more than ready to begin our married lives together at Overhome. Luke has a promising future as a large-animal vet. Mom and Dad have retired from their educator jobs in Jersey and they’re moving down to Southwestern Virginia permanently. Helping me plan for the Big Event. Oh, everything is in place. All my orbs in orbit.

Except for the future of my beloved ancestral estate, Overhome.

Well, my idea is not going to be popular, but it just might save us. I’ve contacted a real estate agent. If we can work out a deal, I should be able to sell off a fifty-acre portion of the fallow land which has not been used for years. Yeah, somebody will build shoddy tract homes on it, no doubt. That can’t be helped. We need the cash and we need it as soon as possible. Hang on, Overhome. Help is on the way.

Chapter 2

Dinner in the dining room